


Muted Angels

by geckoholic



Series: author's favorites [32]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Reality, DCBB2013, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-22
Updated: 2013-10-22
Packaged: 2017-12-30 03:50:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1013747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geckoholic/pseuds/geckoholic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alternative Reality, non-supernatural. There's nothing worse than a case involving dead kids, at least in the book of Detective Dean Winchester. It's just his luck that his partner is the lieutenant's favorite, and she chooses to give them the high-profile murder case of a dead girl from the suburbs. More deaths follow, and the two of them get sucked into the world of religious cults and ritualistic murders. In the face of that, Dean's feelings for aforementioned partner are the least of his problems. </p><p> </p><p>  <span class="small">Please see the End Notes for more detailed warnings.</span></p>
            </blockquote>





	Muted Angels

**Author's Note:**

> There's FANTASTIC art by tsuminoaru to go with this [HERE](http://tsuminubiaru.tumblr.com/post/65434411415/title-muted-angels-author-gechoholic-artist). 
> 
> Rocketgirl2 looked this over, and so did maerhys, who also helped me fact-check. Thanks to you both! ♥ All remaining mistakes are mine. 
> 
> Title is from "People Help The People" by Birdy.

The call catches him over a double-bacon cheeseburger with homemade fries at Stacy's Diner, his Sunday evening ritual and probably the only real joy left in his life. Dean takes his time when he sees the caller ID, puts the burger down reluctantly and wipes his fingers before he picks up the phone. The lieutenant isn't exactly the president of his fan club, and the feeling is mutual. She doesn't like his lack of drive and ambition – Dean's content as a detective and has no thought of going any farther ahead – and, more importantly, she hated his father. 

Then again, a great many people didn't like John Winchester. She's in good company. Despite the waitress' pointed glare Dean counts the rings, answers just in time to prevent the call from going to voice mail. “Yeah?” 

“You've got a case, Winchester,” the lieutenant says, and he can practically see her frown at his informal greeting, which in turn makes him grin. He'd never go against her openly – too much of an effort, and not worth it either, she'll have moved ahead to a more prestigious position in a year or two anyway – but, well. It's the little things. 

He grabs a paper napkin and takes a pen out of his pocket, scribbles down the address. “Cas on his way, or should I call him?” 

“I already informed him.” Of course she did. Cas is her favorite, her protégé. She paired them up two years ago, and Dean suspects it's been a test, an obstacle for Cas to overcome, being paired with the department's weirdo. By now their clearance rate is one of the best in the city, though, so she has kept them together. She probably pats herself on the back for matching them up, and she's got a vested interest in their continued success. It's not quite a fool's license, but it gives him a bit of leeway, and that's the reason why Dean allows himself another small rebellion: he ends the call without a goodbye and finishes his dinner before he heads out. He knows he'll get away with it. She'll bitch at him later, but she usually finds a reason to do that even if he doesn't intentionally give her one. 

 

***

 

It takes him fifteen minutes of circling through the industrial district to find the derelict warehouse that belongs to the address on his napkin. Once he's close enough, he can see the faint red-blue-red glow of the patrol cars. A buzz of police, first responders, and most likely the odd reporter, crawls about the crime scene like blowflies. Fitting comparison, maybe: the source of attraction for all of them is a dead body. 

Dean parks a little off the rumble, on the muddy road leading up to the warehouse. He sits in the car for a little while longer, listening to the patter of the rain on the roof of the Impala and peering through the windshield as the wipers do their job with a lazy creak on each swipe. He's got to change them soon. Damn city, it's always pouring. He should've followed Sam's example, moved somewhere sunny first chance he got and stayed there. 

He's soaked through barely a minute after he gets out of the car. He can see Cas in the distance, not far from his sleek, new sedan and shielded from the rain by a family-sized umbrella. As soon as he spots Dean, he starts to walk over, tries to maneuver Dean underneath the damn thing as well once he's caught up. When he realizes that Dean won't let him, he huffs, mumbles something under his breath, and then points towards the open gate of the warehouse. 

“She's inside. CSI is processing the scene, they'll let us know when they're ready for us. Shouldn't be long now,” Cas explains as he readjusts his umbrella, and Dean has to sidestep the stray drops of rain that are sent his way. He frowns, and Cas's face turns apologetic. Dean knows he doesn't do shit like that on purpose, he's just not very aware of his surroundings sometimes, but it's still unnerving. 

Really, Cas is lucky he's equipped with the kind of face Dean can't stay mad at. 

Half because he wants to, half because he knows it'll piss Cas off, Dean pulls a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket. He finally steps into the shelter of Cas's umbrella, on the edge of its reach but still close enough to blow the smoke straight at him, when a guy in a dark blue flack jacket that marks him as CSI emerges from the warehouse and waves them closer. 

Dean lets Cas take the lead, trots after him like the sidekick everyone thinks he is anyway. The inside of the warehouse is empty, safe for some rubble and old machinery, and covered in a thick layer of dust. It's spacious, but Dean can't make out exactly how much. The crime scene itself is bathed in bright, unnatural light from the floodlights CSI installed, but it fades out into thick, oily darkness, the kind of impenetrable black that seems somehow alive. 

He shakes his head to get rid of the thought. He's too old for horror stories, knows enough about most of them to not be afraid. His dad made sure of that. Finally, he comes closer to get a first glance at the dead body in the center of the floodlights, and freezes, feeling like he's been punched in the guts. 

The girl laying on the messy, dirty ground is no older than sixteen. She's blond, dressed in a flimsy white gown, her hair fanned out around her head. From underneath her, on both sides of her body, emerges a drawing of what looks like huge, black wings. Her eyes are missing and her mouth is sewn shut with a light blue thread. 

Dean wants to puke. He turns, catches Cas's concerned gaze as he turns on his heels, and runs right into the lieutenant. 

“Not feeling well, Detective?” she asks, but it's missing the usual edge, a thin layer of disapproval sprinkled over every word she ever says to him. That's how he knows she's aware of what exactly it is that makes him feel so _unwell_. 

He looks up, makes sure to stare at her with as much disdain as he can muster. “I don't like cases involving dead kids.” 

“I know.” Her face softens, which actually makes things worse. “And I'm sorry. But this is an important case, and I need my best team on it.” 

Dean's never been very receptive to compliments, and he doesn't like to feel flattered. “Yeah, sure. There's no one else in the whole department who could've taken care of this.” 

“Believe me or not, there isn't,” she says, but he's been working underneath her long enough to know she doesn't like buttering people up any more than he likes _being_ buttered up, and that pretty much concludes the conversation. Before she marches past him to talk the case through with the guy she's really proud of, she presses a hand to his shoulder. It's entirely unexpected, and more reassuring than anything she could've said. 

Dean grants himself another moment of avoidance and felling sick to his stomach before he decides it's time to man up. He takes a deep breath and follows her to take a good, long look at the crime scene, makes sure to burn every detail of it into his memory while he ignores the fact that he's looking at the body of a kid who was at most four years older than his own son. 

 

***

 

Cas waits for him in the rain, still under that stupid umbrella, leaning against his sedan. His eyes catch Dean when he exits the warehouse, and Dean can feel his stare while he walks over, like a searchlight honed in on its target. Dean found that kind of stare annoying at first, until he realized that it's Cas's way to show concern. Which, quite frankly, only serves to make it more irritating. 

He stops just short of Cas, raises his eyebrows. Cas lowers his eyes, fumbles with the umbrella until he's managed to fold it. Instead of throwing it into the backseat like a normal person, he walks around the car and puts it into the trunk, and by the time he's back where Dean stands and watches him he's as about as soaked as Dean. Before he climbs into the driver's seat, he shakes his head once, scowling, as if the rain is an annoyance.

Dean smirks. “Tomorrow morning, bright and early?” 

“Of course,” Cas says, glares back at him and absently pushes wet strands of hair out of his face. It's not all that long, but enough to bother him when it's dripping with water and clinging flat to his forehead. “I'll be in at seven.” 

“Bring donuts.” With a pat to the roof of the sedan, Dean turns to leave and jogs to the Impala. He mumbles an apology at her when he lowers himself into the seat, soaked through as he is, a promise to give her upholstery an overhaul that he knows he won't make good on anytime soon. She'll understand. 

Back home, he grabs a shower, then a beer and the remote for his TV set. He lasts checks his clock a little after 3 AM, and he dreams of Ben, eye sockets hollow and mouth sewn shut. 

 

***

 

Dean arrives in the bullpen shortly around 7:15 AM the next morning. Cas is already there, shoves an untouched box of donuts across the desk when Dean sits down. They're from the gas station across the street from headquarters that's open 24 hours, seven days a week, manned by an old married couple that probably only see each other when they change shifts and have long since ceased to be amused at the cliché of selling donuts to cops. Coffee's sizzling in the pot, half-full. A few other early birds are around with them, but in general, the office is quiet. 

Dean gets up again, runs a hand down his face, turns on the little radio on the counter. Incessant babble fills the room, some morning show that tries too hard to be funny. He considers turning it off again, or looking for another station, but both seem like too much effort. 

As he walks the few steps back to his desk and sits down, he can feel Cas's gaze on him again, tracking him, and he imagines the frown that goes with it. Normally he'd shoot a look back, eyebrows raised, causing Cas to frown deeper and look away, but not today. Not after three hours of nightmare-filled sleep, not when he's so sure Cas could read it all written out on his forehead if he gave him the chance. There's a balance, here. They're a good team, but they can't be too close. That way lies disaster. It's hard enough to keep all the things he shouldn't want out of his head as it is. Shouldn't feel, not for his partner, and especially not when said partner has given no inclination of reciprocating. 

The lab's not going to have anything yet, they'll call when they found something worthwhile, so Dean spends most of his morning looking at the images he tried to get his mind off of all night. It's not quite as hard to look at the pictures as it was to look at the real thing on the scene, easier to be distanced and professional about it. 

Dean concentrates on the details, the clues. Identification isn't in yet, but he's rather sure they're not dealing with a street kid. Her nails are short and professionally manicured, so are the toes of her naked feet. Doesn't look like she's wearing makeup, but that's hard to tell with the way her face was maimed. She's wearing an expensive-looking necklace with a cross, small earrings with matching stones, and a promise ring. 

Around ten, the phone in the middle of their desk rings. Cas looks up, and they exchange a quick look before he picks it up. He cocks his head as he listens to the person on the other end, scribbles something on a notepad in front of him and thanks them. “We may have a name. Rachel Winters. Parents reported her missing last night when she didn't come home from a sleepover. One she never made it to in the first place, as it turns out.” 

Dean types the name into the search bar to pull up the file. There's nothing much in it: a pic that looks like a yearbook photo – as close to a match as they can get with the eyes missing – and a short report from when the parents came in last night. Meredith and Carl Winters, postal clerk and kindergarten teacher. Nice people from the looks of it, suburban and normal, but that can be deceiving. Still. Dean would much rather dip his dick in battery acid than tell them they may have found their daughter, dead and mutilated. 

“I can go alone if you'd like me to,” Cas suggests. His eyes are carefully trained on his computer screen, about as much stealth as a bull in a china shop. 

It's rather pathetic, but Dean can appreciate the thought behind it. He pastes on a trademark grin, hopes it doesn't look too out of place. “Nah. We don't need to traumatize these poor people further by unleashing you on them unsupervised.”

 

***

 

Meredith Winters starts sobbing as soon as Dean and Cas show her their badges and introduce themselves as homicide detectives. Her husband guides her into the kitchen with a stony expression before he invites them both into the living room and Cas excuses himself to have a look at the girl's room upstairs. 

Dean kind of wants to puke. “We can't be sure yet, Mr. Winters. But the description fits your daughter to a T, and we'd like you to come in. Identify her.” 

Mr. Winters nods, wiping his hands on the legs of his dark, nondescript dress pants. He wears a necklace with a cross similar to his daughter's, only simpler. A big, wooden cross hangs above the fireplace, and the few paintings the room is decorated with seem Christian in origin too. “Of course. Anything you need.” 

Dean decides to leave the warnings about the state the body's in for later, fish for some more information first. “You're religious, aren't you? Your daughter too?” 

“Yes. She was a good girl. Went to church with us every Sunday, didn't get mixed up with boys.” His eyes fill with tears, and he wipes the back of his hand across his face. “I'm sorry.” 

“Don't be, Sir. I understand,” Dean says. He knows he should be on top of this, professional, try to think of other things to ask, but instead they fall into uncomfortable silence until Cas comes down the stairs to join them a moment later. 

He gives an almost imperceptible head shake in Dean's direction, doesn't sit down. He's got a laptop under his arm, gray with a pink cover, points at it with his other hand. “May we take this with us?” 

“Of course.” Mr. Winters takes a breath, visibly composing himself. “We'll come in as soon as... My wife. She'll need some time to calm down.” 

That'd be Dean's cue to mention the eyes, but he decides one shock at time would be enough. He'll prepare them later, before they're going to see the body. Or maybe he'll be even more of a coward, leave that to the coroner. He gets up. “We should go back to the station.”

They say their goodbyes and head outside. Cas looks back at the house wistfully before he gets into the driver's seat of his sedan. “The girl's room was unobtrusive. More religious memorabilia. Maybe there's useful information on her computer.” 

That's not actually what's on his mind, Dean can tell. “Yeah. We'll hand it over to the nerd squad. If there are any dark, hidden secrets to be found, she probably wouldn't have kept them in plain sight. Right now, though, my money's on some pervert with a thing for choir girls or something.” 

 

***

 

The Winterses come in shortly after noon. They identify the dead girl as her daughter, and Cas stays with the coroner to talk about what he’s found so far while Dean guides them out of the building. Afterwards, he finds himself a quiet corner in the parking lot, lights a cigarette, and dials Lisa's number. 

“Hey you,” she greets him, and he can hear her putter around in the kitchen, imagines her holding the phone with her shoulder while she clears the table or does the dishes. “What's up?” 

He takes a pull and exhales the smoke, tries not to think about the dead teen on the cold metal table and fails. “Nothing much. I just... Is Ben home?” 

“He's at soccer practice, you know that.” Lisa pauses, and the noises stop. She’s probably holding the speaker in hand now, giving him her full attention. “Dean, tell me what's wrong.” 

They were too young when they hooked up, too naive, too in love for reality to be anything else than a crushing disappointment. Before Ben even celebrated his third birthday, they had been heading for a divorce. But as parents and friends, they still work, and by now she can read him like a book. Sometimes that's good, sometimes it makes him feel naked. Right now it's comforting. “New case. Teenage girl.” 

“I see,” she says, needing nothing more to understand. “He'll be home around four. I'll have him call you, okay?” 

Dean closes his eyes and leans back onto the stone wall behind him, hopes he won't be seen. The last thing he needs is for the lieutenant to start worrying about his state of mind. “Yeah. That'd be great. Thanks, Lis.” 

Apparently satisfied that he's going to be fine, Lisa starts her puttering back up. “Hey, actually, why don't you come over for dinner tonight? Ben would love that, and so would I.” 

“Maybe.” He disposes of the cigarette stub, grinds it under his heel. “You know how it is, when we're on a case.” 

Lisa isn't deterred. “So? Bring Cas along. As long as you don't talk about anything that'll give Ben nightmares, I don't mind. And hey, you both gotta eat at some point anyway. Might as well do that here.” 

“I'll ask him,” Dean promises. It wouldn't be the first time he'd brought Cas, and they all get along well enough. With all the worried side glances he's been throwing today, he might agree to it just to do Dean a favor. 

 

***

 

Cas waits for him by the door of the coroner's office, wearing a stoic expression and skimming through a manila folder with photos. His emotionless, analytical front is impenetrable. Perfect. It fooled Dean for a good while before he became able to read Cas's tells. They didn't have an easy start. 

But that seems like forever ago. Now, Dean can see the tense line of Cas's shoulders, the way he's too stiff, concentrates too much. There's a muscle in his neck that tics a little sometimes, suppressed emotion looking for a physical outlet. It's there. Well hidden and not to be talked about, but he's not made out of marble. 

“Hey,” Dean says, casual. “What've we got?” 

Cas looks up, starts walking in direction of the staircase to the bullpen as he recounts the conversation with the coroner. “She was suffocated. Not sure how yet, but probably either with a bag over her head or by someone pressing something to her mouth and nose. It took awhile, and there are signs of a prolonged struggle. She fought, but the killer cleaned her up meticulously when he dressed and prepared her. Scrubbed her hands, her nails, to get rid of evidence. She died maybe two or three hours before she was found.” 

Dean had started to follow him, but now he reaches out, holding Cas by the arm to get his attention. “Wait, who called it in again?” 

“Anonymous caller,” Cas replies without having to check the file. 

Someone randomly coming across a dead body in an abandoned warehouse, mere hours after it got positioned there – yeah, sure. What a funny coincidence. “Are you thinking what I'm thinking?” 

Cas nods. “Yes, I believe I am. The killer made the call himself.” 

“He wanted us to find her, and fast. He's proud, needed to show off his work. That's good. Narcissists trip up faster.” 

Expression darkening, Cas finally looks up from the file and right at Dean. “He's not going to be content with just one. He's impatient. The thrill will wear off fast, and he'll have to do it again.” 

“Well, we'll just have to be faster. I got the name of the friend Rachel was supposed to stay with from the parents. Let's talk to her next, see if she's got something that'll help us,” Dean suggests, starting to walk again. They've got a few calls to make, get the permission of the other girl's parents, set a meeting. And if Cas is right and they have a blooming serial killer on their hands? They need to get a move on. 

 

***

 

Michelle Banks is a frail, shy teenager, who looks way younger than her fifteen years. She can't hold Dean's eyes for longer than a few seconds at a time, and she keeps picking at the hem of her embroidered blouse while she talks, gaze trained on her fingers. Her voice is thin, low, and goes up on every other sentence, making half of what she says sound like a question, like she's looking for approval or affirmation that she's doing this right. 

Dean smiles at her as reassuringly as he can. “You were good friends with Rachel? Tell me about her.” 

“Yes. Yes, we had a lot of courses together, and we hung out after school and after church on Sundays.” Michelle's eyes fall away again, but not before Dean can see them watering. Poor kid, can't be easy to lose a friend like this and then be expected to talk about it. “She was always nice to me. We, like. Talked about school stuff and... Other things. Nothing bad though. Rachel wouldn't have.” 

“So she wasn't seeing anyone? No boys she liked, anyone she had a crush on?” It's not likely that a school boy pulled off a kill like this one, but they've got to cover their asses. Better to have asked. 

“No! Definitely not,” Michelle says, voice rising and then going quiet again like she made a mistake. She lets go of her blouse, knits her hands together in her lap instead. “No. Not that I know of?” 

“It's okay,” Dean tries to placate her. “What happened the day you had your sleepover? Did Rachel say anything about why she had to cancel on you?” 

“Yes, she sent me a text.” Michelle turns on her chair, digs her bag out from underneath it and rummages around until she produces her phone. “I can show you, if you want?”

Dean nods, holds out his hand. “Yeah, that'd be great.” 

After some scrolling, Michelle hands him the phone. The last message in the thread named _Rachel ♥_ is short, lacking in the overabundance of emoticons and abbreviations the previous conversations drown in. _Gotta stay home, Dad changed his mind. Can't go out. Sorry! Talk to you tomorrow._ Dean shows the phone to Cas, who shrugs, eyes narrowed. Yeah, of course the finer nuances in teenager texting would be lost on him. 

Dean gives the phone back. “That text sounds a little... Out of character?” 

“Yeah.” Michelle puts it away, keeps it balanced on her legs and holds on to it a little too tight. “I figured she was upset. That she had a fight with her parents or something. I was going to ask her about it at school, but –“ Her voice breaks, and this time she does start crying. 

And right then, Dean decides they've put the girl through enough. He glances to Cas, to check if he's got any other questions, and then stands, offering her his hand. “Thank you so much, Michelle. You did great. Can we call you again if we have more questions? Would that be okay?” 

Michelle nods, rises to her feet too, takes his hand and shakes it. Her palms are clammy. He watches her gather up her jacket from the chair she was sitting on, looks after her when she meets with her parents, who've been waiting outside the office. Only when he's absolutely sure she's out of earshot, he turns to address Cas. “Rachel didn't send that text.” 

 

***

 

They're in the lieutenant's office twenty minutes later. She wanted a progress report, which she usually only calls Cas in for, but this time Cas insisted on dragging Dean along. 

That's how Dean ends up giving a summary of everything they've found so far, and tacking his additional theories on at the end. “Call it a hunch, Lieutenant, but I don't think the girl sent the text. I have... My son, he's not much younger than her. Kids text a certain way, Rachel did too, up until that final one.”

“So you think the killer sent it.” She sits across from them, behind her long, elegant, expensive glass desk, narrows her eyes to squint at the coroner's report that Dean can see open on her computer. “It says in the report he killed her hours before we found her. When was she last seen?”

“Friday afternoon, when she left school,” Dean answers. “Her friend received the text around 6 PM. That means, if we assume she was killed sometime on early Sunday, he kept her for more than twenty-four hours before he killed her.” 

“I'm going to give the coroner's office a head's up, see if they can figure out what he did to her during that time.” She looks up when Cas shifts in his chair and clears his throat. “Castiel? Anything to add?” 

They're on first name basis, Cas and the lieutenant. Of course they are. They're practically _BFFs_. And yet, when they're in here, Cas still acts like a teenager who got called to the whiteboard to solve a math problem in front of the whole class. He nods, leans forward a little, sits up straighter. “Yes. We don't think this is an isolated case. It's also merely a hunch” – he glances to Dean – “at this point, but we think the killer called us in himself, to bring attention to his work. He's proud of it, he wants to show off, and we think he'll do it again.” 

The lieutenant falls back in her pricey leather chair – she paid for the shit in here herself, as far as Dean knows, the city wouldn't spend that much – and sighs. “Serial killer. I was hoping it wasn't going to be one, but with the way he set her up... Well. I don't have to tell you how to proceed, do I?” 

“No, Naomi,” Cas hurries to reply, but corrects himself when she shots him a look. “I mean. Ma'am. Lieutenant. We'll take care of it.”

It's not quite diligent bootlicking, but Dean's tempted to roll his eyes anyway. There might be a few teasing comments about it later, though; he's only human. For now he sends an awkward, reassuring we've-totally-got-this smile to the lieutenant, pushes his chair back and stands. He waits for Cas to put the file back together so they can leave the office together. 

Dean snatches the file from him when they're back at their desks. It's all in the computer too, he could call it up with a few clicks, but he prefers to have actual paper in his hands. “Got any fancy theories to narrow down the search?” 

Cas glares him down, but doesn't try to get the file back. He sits down, shakes the mouse to get his computer back to life. “I do not have anything _fancy_ to offer. It's probably safe to assume that he'll stick with the same victim type, so I suggest we focus on missing teenage girls for now.” 

“Yeah,” Dean says, sitting down himself and pushing a few random letters on the keyboard of his own computer. “You take town limits, I check the area?” 

 

***

 

For most of the afternoon, they sift through missing persons cases. The city is big, kids go missing for a few days all the time, and teenage girls don't make up a small portion of that. Needle in a haystack, with nothing else to go on than age and gender. They're from different backgrounds and some of them he rules out as runaways, but they're all so painfully _young_. It's necessary work, though, to figure out if this is the first murder or if the killer's been working up to it. He goes back for years, with no tangible result. They don't have much to go on yet. And isn't that a horrible thought, because the only way they get more to go on is another dead kid. 

He gets up from the desk, uses a call to the missing person's department as an excuse to leave the computer. Dean's been a cop in this city long enough, inherited it even. There's always someone who owes either him or his father a favor, or inexplicably likes him enough to help him out even without wanting to have it paid forward. His contact at missing persons is Jo, another cop's kid. She's a few years younger than him, but their parents used to be friends. A long time ago, way before John Winchester set out on a mission to alienate everyone around him, they spent more time with each other than apart. 

Now, they're sending each other emails for their respective birthdays and sometimes talk at work. She takes a while to answer her phone, sounds a little out of breath when she does pick up. “Hey, Winchester.” 

“Hey, Harvelle.” He pauses, listens as her breathing evens out. “Bad timing?” 

“Nah,” she says. “It's fine. Just came in from an interview. Old guy with Alzheimer's walked out, hasn't been seen in a few days. Real sad. I'm not sure we'll find him alive.” 

“I'm sorry.” They win some, they lose others, that's just the job. But he knows how hard the latter can hit. 

She huffs, and if he knows her at all then she's probably rolling her eyes at him right about now. “What can I do for you?” 

Change of topic, and hey, he's cool with that. He's never been great at comforting speeches. “We're on a murder case, but we think it might he the first in a series. Can you call me up if any cases about missing teenage girls cross your desk?” 

There's a clink, and then Dean can faintly hear her scribbling on what he assumes is a notepad. “Sure. Any specifics?” 

“Not yet. The first victim was white and from the suburbs, but we can't know if he'll stick to that. Oh, and keep an eye out for girls from a devout or religious background.” 

Jo scribbles that down too, and then he hears the page ripped off the notepad. “You got it. I'll call you if something comes up.” 

He thanks her, disconnects the call and sits back down. Cas is still engrossed in his end of the research, and Dean leans forward and knocks at his side of the desk to get his attention. “Hey. Cas.” 

“Hm,” Cas grunts, doesn't look up from the screen. 

“I talked to Lisa earlier,” Dean says. “She invited us over for dinner.” 

That detaches Cas from the digital files in front of him. He glances up. “Both of us?” 

“Yeah. Told her we're on a case, to which she replied that we still have to eat something. Can't really argue with that, eh?” 

Cas eyes narrow. “You want to see Ben.” 

Observant little fucker. Most of their colleagues in the department don't give Cas enough credit for his ability to read people, but Dean's been the one being read too often to still be surprised. “Yeah. I want to see Ben. Are you coming or what?” 

Cas stares at him some more, head slightly cocked. Then he nods and goes back to scouring the files without saying another word. 

 

***

 

The dinner isn't anything special; Dean helps Lisa make steaks with corn, hash browns and salad in the kitchen, while Ben tries to teach Cas how to play X-box, which is connected with the big TV in the living room so Lisa can keep tabs on his playing. 

It's a hilarious thing to watch. Cas keeps pressing the wrong buttons, causing cars on the race track to slow down or spin around, and Ben gazes at him as if he's an alien, huffing theatrically. 

Lisa catches him, looking at them through the open door between both rooms. “Are you ever going to tell him?” 

Dean quickly turns his attention back to the raw steak he was seasoning. “Tell who what?” 

“Oh, honey.” Her face softens, lips curving up into a warm smile. “You know what I mean. Cas. Will you ever tell him how you feel?” 

No, he won't. Because Cas is his partner and they don't even talk about things like sexual orientation. Because he's pretty sure Cas doesn't feel the same way; what are the odds he's into guys? Because no one in the department knows Dean's bi. There's a million reasons why telling him would be a very, very bad idea. “Lisa. Don't.” 

She briefly touches his arm before she bends down to open the fridge to get tomatoes and lettuce, and they continue their preparations in silence. 

Over dinner, Ben chatters away about his soccer stuff and his new trainer and how he might get promoted to striker next season, and Dean wonders, not for the first time, how he and Lisa could produce a kid that's so much like Sam. Ben sees his uncle three or four times a year, for his birthday and the bigger holidays, and yet at some point he seems to have decided that he wants to be Sam Winchester when he grows up. Soccer and books and he's started talking about maybe becoming a lawyer, which, hey, is probably a much wiser career choice than being a cop. Safer and healthier too. Maybe police work _should_ be a family tradition that dies with Dean. 

For now, though, it's still Dean's life. And shortly after they sat down with some dessert Ben helped make earlier that afternoon, yogurt and fruit with way too few calories for Dean's taste, that life drags him back. 

 

***

 

The next victim isn't a teenager. It's not a girl either. Raphael Fainswood is eleven, African-American, the son of some hotshot insurance broker and his stay-at-home wife. He's found in the parking lot of a long-since closed 7-11 at the outskirts of town. Dean and Cas drive over from Lisa's together and find a scene almost identical to the warehouse: wings drawn on the ground, white night clothes – old-fashioned pajamas this time – eyes missing and mouth sewn shut. 

Dean lets Cas takes notes on the scene – Cas volunteers for it, and Dean's disturbed enough not to argue – and watches from afar. At this angle, the huge hand-drawn wings are even more impressive. Just like with Rachel, they span about two meters on either side of the body. The killer took his time, paid a lot of attention to details, drawing the feathers and the bones. It's not a doodle, not just a quick sketch. They look like actual wings, etched onto the pavement like those dinosaur skeletons from the books Ben was so fond of a few years ago. Looking at it with a little more distance then at the first scene – both literally and emotionally – Dean can't shake the feeling that he's seen it before. It's vaguely familiar, somehow, the style and the shape of the wings. He approaches the drawing, kneels down. Crime scene investigators are swarming around the place, and they'll likely have a heart attack if Dean touches the evidence at this time, but he makes a mental note to come back later. Lab said it's common chalk, but... Dean's a hands-on guy. He likes to touch things, get a feel for them. 

It's about 10 PM when Cas seeks him out. CSI is still busy, but they can't do much more right now. “Should I drop you off at home? I can pick you up tomorrow morning too.” 

“Nah.” Dean stands, cleans his hands on the back of his jeans. “I'd like to go back to the station, if you don't mind.” 

Cas simply nods and starts for the car, and neither of them talk on their way back to the bullpen. Once they've arrived, he turns his computer on immediately, and the steady clicking from the other side of the desk makes Dean assume that Cas is getting a head start on their report from the scene. Meanwhile, Dean pulls the photos from the first crime scene out again, to give the wings yet another look. 

He turns the pictures this way or that, squints, holds them at a distance, his fingers covering Rachel's body. They _definitely_ look familiar, he's sure now, but he can't connect them. When Cas excuses himself to the bathroom, Dean hijacks his computer to search for “wings” and “hand-drawn” in the department's search engine, but it comes up with too many results, most of them random and not at all related to the case at hand. 

There's somewhere else he could look, though. 

He's got his keys out of his jacket before Cas is back in the room, ignores the disdainful look that gets him. 

Cas sits down at the desk, looks at the still open search request, then at Dean. “You're going home?”

“Yep,” Dean replies. “It's late. Getting tired, you know?” 

Eyes narrowed and head cocked to the side, Cas stares at Dean as if he's transparent, his plans written out on his forehead. “Regardless of whether or not you'll find what you're looking for, promise me you'll tell me about it in the morning?” 

With a final nod, Dean leaves. His car is still in the department's parking lot, and he takes his time driving home. It's way past midnight and traffic is low, but the city is far from asleep. Neon signs are blinking, some bars are still open and crowded; some part of it is always awake, always brimming with life in some way or other. 

Dean texts Jo, tells her to keep him in the loop about all missing children instead of just young girls. The phone rings just a few minutes later to announce her reply. By that time, he's out of the car, heading inside. He throws the key on the counter, doesn't bother turning on the light in the hallway or the living room. What he's looking for rests in a drawer in the old desk he bought for cheap at a yard sale when he was still with Lisa, one of the few pieces of furniture he hangs onto. 

The old leather has gone a little brittle from disuse and inappropriate storage, and Dean can see his father in his mind, not outright criticizing him but sending him one of _those_ looks. Like Dean's the worst excuse for a son that ever roamed the earth, like he's incapable of doing anything right. Of course he'd ruin that too. Of course. It's a miracle the car's still going. 

Dean shakes the thought away and unwraps the book that contains all those notes not even John Winchester dared to put in an official report. Horror stories, whacked theories, but also some details and background research that aren't quite so far off the mark. If his old man worked a case that's similar to theirs, and if that's what Dean remembers the wings from, it's going to be in here. He used to keep it in the office, but it served as too glaring a reminder of Dean's old man, of the Winchester's knack for the weird and the creepy, and so Dean took it home. 

He flicks through the pages, not reading the text but scanning the sketches his father made for something wing-shaped, and yes. There it is. Summer 1998, when Dean was nineteen and already well on his way to following in his footsteps, John worked a case about a missing girl too. She was found alive, though, and that's how the police found out about a compound just out of town, home to a small religious cult named “the host”. He’d kept photos, and the wings that decorated every wall of the place look a lot like the ones at their crime scenes. They're also black, huge and drawn in realistic detail. Dean reads the notes. 

The cult believed that fallen angels were among them, expelled from heaven by one of their own, and that, if they ever regained the knowledge about their real origin, they'd enslave mankind and make earth their kingdom instead. The cult sought to prevent that by killing them first. It had about thirty members, and most of them were shoved off to therapy once the cult was destroyed and their leaders convicted. No one died; the arrests happened before they got that far. 

Dean scribbles down the address of the compound and the names of the leader and his members before he puts the book away. 

 

*** 

 

Cas looks like he’s bit into a lemon when Dean tells him about the cult the next morning, over burnt coffee and an unopened box of donuts from the gas station. He snatches the note with the names and the address out of Dean's hands once he's finished and punches them into the keyboard with more force than necessary, and wow, someone stumbled out of the wrong side of the bed today. 

Dean knocks his foot against Cas's under the desk, feels like an awkward teenager punching his crush in the arm instead of talking to him head-on. “Didn't sleep well, hm?” 

“I slept well enough, thanks for asking,” Cas says, tone flat and with just the slightest hint of mockery. Well. No more sharing and caring then. Back to business. 

Dean pulls up the search engine, leans across the desk to fish for the note Cas left lying next to his keyboard. “Found anything?” 

Eyes tracking after the note in Dean's hand like it's a spider on the run from the newspaper about to swat it, Cas frowns at Dean, then turns back to his screen. “The compound is abandoned, has been since the arrests. The cult leader died in prison a little less than two years ago. Most of the other members on your list are still alive, and I'm going to cross-reference for more names.” 

“That's a whole lot of leg work.” Dean doesn't enjoy the prospect of going from door to door to remind people of what might well be the worst time of their lives, but at least it's a step up from talking to parents who just lost their children. There's another round of that waiting for him later today, too. Before that, though, they have a briefing with the lieutenant around 9 AM. It's going to be an all-around pleasant day. 

She seems interested in Dean's theory about a possible connection to the cult at first, then scoffs at it when he mentions his father's name, but she eventually allows them to check it out anyway. Cas backs him, and it's the only tangible lead they have right now; either they look into it or they chase shadows and twiddle their thumbs until another murder might produce more evidence. 

Cas makes the run down to the coroner's alone, while Dean looks into more former cult members. Some of them recovered just fine, got on with their lives, but others... not so much. Logically, they should look into those people first, but that feels almost too easy. He's got half a mind to do it the other way around just to be contrary, but they're working a murder case, possible serial. Time's important. The killer might be out there right now, circling another victim. And well, if it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck... 

One of the members that stayed off the straight and narrow for good is currently in prison and therefore off the list, another one moved to Vermont after being released from a mental facility. Numerous others are still in the city, most of them either jobless and with a rap sheet a mile long or struggling with a history of life-long therapy. It takes a certain type of person to rally behind a religious leader and prepare for murdering innocent people based on his ideas, Dean guesses. 

He prints out a list with names and addresses, and excuses himself for a brief smoke outside as soon as Cas gets back. There's a text message on his phone, a link from Ben to some silly YouTube video about a barking cat, and he's about to text him back when a couple that looks like they could be Raphael's parents makes their way towards the building.

 

***

 

The conversation with them doesn't bring up anything new. All throughout, Dean does his best to focus on the case and the things he needs to ask, that they need to know to try and find his killer, rather than get distracted by the tear tracks on Mrs. Fainswood's face, the way she clutches the cross that hangs from her necklace, or how hoarse Mr. Fainswood's voice sounds when he tries to wring a promise from Dean that they'll find the killer before he can kill anyone else's child. 

Raphael didn't come back from the house of a kid in the neighborhood, disappeared while Rachel was still missing. The twenty-four-hours timeline fits, though, and the thought that the nutcase hoards multiple victims at the same time makes Dean feel like he's been clubbed over the head. 

Before they head off to their first batch of interviews with former club members, he calls Jo again, asks her to pull up all recent cases of missing kids and leave copies on his desk. 

 

***

 

The interviews are long, tedious, and bring up exactly jack squat as far as tangible leads go. By the time they're back in the bullpen, Dean's about ready to put his fist through a wall, loaded with anger and frustration. Instead, he falls onto the files Jo did leave on his desk with fervor. 

Cas is calm, subdued, watching Dean from out of the corner of his eyes. It's a new flavor of him, this level of worry, and Dean's not sure if he feels tickled or guilty that he's the one prompting it. Maybe Cas is just afraid he's going to lose it to the point where the job will suffer. That'd put a damper on their spotless record, screwing up a case like this just because Dean can't keep his thoughts sorted. 

Rolling his office chair next to Dean's on his side of the desk, Cas wordlessly sits down and reaches for one of the files. There are six of them – children of all ages and social status, all gone missing within the last 48 hours. Less than he'd feared, more than he'd hoped. 

The first one Dean grabs is the case of a baby, not even six months old, which disappeared in a shopping mall. Jo's department already has an APB out for a woman who'd reportedly been seen hijacking the stroller, and so Dean discards it. The next is a seventeen-year-old girl named Anna Milton from a low-income family who was reported missing a mere three hours ago. He's tempted to sort her out too, but... They didn't expect Raphael. Sticking with a pattern can be misleading. The one after that would possibly fit too, and yeah. He's got no idea what to look for. Both Rachel and Raphael had a religious background, but stuff like that doesn't always go in the files. They'd need to interview the parents to find out about that. 

He leans back in his chair, massaging his temples. “Guess we gotta keep an eye on all of them for now, eh? No clue what to look for.” 

Cas narrows his eyes, shoves a file at him. “I think this one might be a candidate.” 

Dean opens it: a six-year-old named Inias, he disappeared from the doorstep of his house while his single mother was at work yesterday afternoon. “What's so different about him?” 

“The name,” Cas says, voice toneless and face a little too stoney. “Rachel and Raphael are the names of angels, and so is Inias.” 

And yeah, Dean wasn't aware his partner was a bible freak, or religious at all. He's pretty knowledgeable, but that's a little too specific for Dean not to want to dig into it, get curious. “How do you know that stuff?”

Cas scowls, looks away, and for a moment Dean thinks he's going to walk right past the question, ignore it and move on to the case. Which, well, fair enough. It's what they're supposed to focus on, and – 

“My family is very religious.” Cas is still facing away from Dean, voice much lower now, thinner, sounding a little far away, and he's got his hands in fists by his torso. “I was raised in a rigid, devout community in Illinois. Not like the cult, but... It was strict, not much outside influence. My parents sent me to a private religious school in town, bible studies were a daily thing. You would probably say that I had knowledge like that _hammered into me_.” 

“You never told me about that.” It's the wrong thing to say, not the thing Dean's supposed to take away from the conversation, but it's the first thought that comes to mind. And with Dean, those have a way to find their way out even if it's smarter not to say them. 

At that, Cas does turn around. His expression isn't hostile, exactly, but something that screams at Dean to stop, back off, don't poke at this. “There's a lot we don't know about each other, I suppose.” 

“Yeah,” Dean says. “Uh, I have a Camille, a Jeff, and girl named Anna. Neither of them sound angelic to me, to be honest.” 

“Anna.” Cas motions for the file. “That's an angelic name as well. Anael, actually, the archaic form, but I guess we should look into it anyway.” 

 

***

 

It's past 2 AM when Dean and Cas say their goodbyes and each go home, and yet they're both back in the office at 7 AM sharp. Cas briefs the lieutenant on last night's findings while Dean makes a run to the computer lab, prompted by a message in his email inbox. They're done with Rachel's computer. 

Pamela beckons him over to her desk as soon as he sets foot in the lab. She's a few years his senior, brunette, and always wearing band shirts and low-sitting jeans that reveal the tattoo on her lower back. One day, Dean will ask her who that Jesse guy is, and what he did to deserve being inked into her skin. Not today, though. The last thing he's in the mood for is flirty banter. 

“Hey,” he says, leans on her desk, ignores the appreciative gaze. “What've you got?”

She sobers up her expression, catching the hint, grabs the laptop and a couple printouts. “Not much. Mostly boring stuff, homework, chat protocols with her friends that consist of little more than ranting about teachers, gossiping and talking about the latest boy bands. Her internet history is school work, except for the occasional message board or downloaded song.”

Dean points at the printouts. “And that?” 

“Photos. Summer party at her church or something. There's a lot of people in there, and I thought I'd print them out for you. Maybe you can identify someone later.” 

She picks up both the computer and the photos and hands them over. Any other day, Dean might've leaned in a little too close, lowered his voice, played the game, but not this time. He smiles, thanks her, and leaves with the computer underneath his arm and the photos in his hand. 

Cas is out of the briefing when he comes back, sipping coffee in front of his computer. As per usual, neither his expression nor his behavior offer any sort of hint at how it went, but Dean trusts him to mention anything important on his own volition. If he’s quiet, it must have gone okay. 

He holds up the photos. “Pamela found these on Rachel's computer. Some church event. Might be useful later, if we have a face to search for.” 

Looking up at the stack of paper in Dean's hand, briefly, Cas nods. Simple acknowledgment, no answer needed, and so Dean sits down to skip the photos before he calls Inias' mother and Anna's parents. 

Inias' mother, it turns out, isn't exactly religious. She had no idea that her son's name had connections to angels until Cas explains the origin to her. She can't remember the last time she set foot into a church or anything similar, and Inias wasn't even baptized. 

Dean leads her out of the office and promises to talk to Jo, convince her to make the kid a priority, and when he comes back in Cas shakes his head. “I don't think it's our killer.” 

“Yeah, me neither.” Dean marches straight to the coffee machine, pours himself a cup and then turns to raise his eyebrows at Cas, pours a second one when Cas nods. They both need caffeine badly today. 

He sets one of the cups down in front of Cas, checks his watch. He told Anna's parents they'd come by around 10 AM, and since the interview with Inias's mother went by faster than he thought, they've got some time to spare. “Cas, what do you say. We head out now, have breakfast at Stacy's?” 

Instead of answering, Cas grabs his coat. 

 

***

 

Sour guilt washes over Dean when they sit down in a both by the window, brief but violent reminder that they're on a countdown, and if it runs out a child will be dead. But he's also been doing this job long enough to know that he's got to grant himself some of the basics now and then: sleep, food, a minute to think about anything else than blood and death and what happens if they fail. 

He watches Cas across the table, subtly he hopes, thinks about the bombshell he dropped last night about his upbringing. Meanwhile, Cas is studying the menu, scowling at it, like the decision between pancakes or eggs for breakfast is beneath him. Dean's about to snatch the menu out of his hands and order _for him_ when he finally puts it down. “Okay. I'm ready to order. I take it you know what you want?” 

“'Course I do,” says Dean. Blueberry pancakes with whipped cream, like always. He's a creature of habit. Cas shoots him a look that Dean doesn't quite dare to interpret as fond, and flags down the waitress so they can order. 

While they wait for their food to arrive, Dean distracts himself by looking out of the window and identifying the plates from the cars that arrive in or leave the parking lot. His own is parked right before the window, shiny and black and glinting in the sunlight. Without permission his thoughts trail off to the girl that might be fighting for her life out there right this second, and by the time the waitress shoves their plates across the table, he's not really hungry anymore. 

He listlessly picks at the pancakes, takes a few bites before giving up on it and pushing his plate away. So much for abiding by his own rules. 

Cas eyebrows furrow over his tuna sandwich, and he puts it down. “Do you want to leave? I can eat on the way.” 

Dean shrugs, and Cas gets up to pay their tab, comes back with a bottle of water and two greasy bags. He holds one of them out, shakes it a little when Dean doesn't take it immediately, doesn't comment when Dean throws it into the back seat as soon as they're in the car. 

 

***

 

The Miltons live in apartment complex in midtown. Mrs. Milton opens the door alone, apologizing for the fact that her husband isn't home, he can't miss work, and leads them into a small living room. It's simple, worn furniture that doesn't quite fit together, an old TV-set in the corner, and Dean just _knows_ they got it right this time when he sees the richly ornamented wooden cross on the wall above the couch. 

Anna had been at an afternoon course held by her church before she disappeared. She was set to participate in a little play they'd had set up and were supposed to perform yesterday evening, and her parents called the police when she still didn't show up in time for it. 

“The officer on duty is a friend of our pastor,” she says, eyes straight ahead, looking through Dean and Cas instead of at them. “Normally we'd have to wait, but... Anna wouldn't have missed that. She _wouldn't_. She was so excited, hardly talked about anything else for weeks.” 

“We believe you. And we'll do whatever we can to find her.” Dean went through the file; they have plenty of witnesses, but no one who had anything to say that didn't amount to grief about Anna's disappearance and a testament to what a great kid she is. Eye witnesses, about as useful as sunscreen in the Antarctic. 

Mrs. Milton takes a deep breath, then stands to reach for a photo album, bright yellow and with hand-drawn decorations on it. “Anna made this. It's sort of a, I don't know, a diary about the rehearsals and making the stage designs and all that. I didn't think about that last night, but I remembered when I... Anyway, do you want to take a look at it?” 

“Yes, that would be good,” Cas says, reaches for it and angles it so he and Dean can scan through it together. There are snapshots and descriptions in a girly handwriting, pictures of the other kids and the pastor and a few adults helping out. They're almost at the end of it when the picture of an older guy, maybe in his fifties, catches his attention. He's familiar, Dean's sure, he's seen him before – and then it hits him. He was in the pictures from Rachel's church meeting too. Two different districts, different churches, the same guy. 

He nudges Cas, takes the photo album and holds it out so Mrs. Milton can see the photo. “Who's that?” 

She touches the photo with her fingertips, thinks for a moment before she answers. “That's Marv... I don't know, something with a B. He's a volunteer, helps out with the youth activities sometimes, that's all I know.” 

And yes, of course. Marvin Buchanan. His name was on the list in John's journal, one of the cult members. The one they didn't interview since he was still registered in Vermont after he'd left a mental institution in town. 

Dean thanks Mrs. Milton hastily, explains the connection to Cas as soon as she closed the door behind them. He ignores a speed limit or two on the way back to the bullpen, and twenty minutes later Cas is on the phone with the hospital Marvin spent the better portion of his adult life in while Dean's waiting for the church secretary to give out his current address. Dean's got a picture and a dossier on his computer screen, and there's no doubt that Marv-From-Church is, indeed, Marvin Buchanan. 

 

***

 

The secretary told Dean she was expecting Buchanan to show up for a meeting with the pastor to coordinate a search party for Anna – oh, the irony – just about the time Dean called. She expected it to last for an hour at most, and sure enough, nobody's home when they arrive at the address that Buchanan gave the church. After a short but heated argument about whether or not they have enough evidence to get the go-ahead to search the apartment on probable cause, they settle in the car with a good view of the only entrance and wait. 

Hardly fifteen minutes later, Buchanan gets home. He climbs out of his rusty old Buick, strolls to the door like he doesn't have a care in the world, and he's back and starting the engine up again just a few minutes later. Dean and Cas follow him at a distance. Not for long; a few winding back roads later, he stops in front of an abandoned store not far from the parking lot where they found Raphael. It's the same kind of neighborhood both dumping places were: long-forgotten places that no one cares for anymore and no one pays attention to. Perfect choice as far as crime scenes go, Dean's got to give him that. 

He leans forward to kill the engine, reaches for the door handle, but Cas's hand on his arm hands holds him back. “Don't. Not yet.” At Dean's cocked eyebrow, he adds, “I don't think this is where he keeps Anna. Where would he hold her? In the store's stock room?” 

Dean gives the storefront another good look, and yeah. Cas has a point. Most of it is made of glass, which is dirty as fuck but still translucent enough to let through outlines of what's happening inside. And it's empty, except for some clutter in the back, and now Buchanan's figure rummaging around. The jackass is kneeling on the ground with a bag by his side, and yep. Cas _is_ right; Dean's pretty sure he's busy drawing the wings. 

The wait is pure agony. Now that they've caught him prepping the store, Cas calls in with where they are, what's happening, and requests units to get the green light and tear Buchanan's place apart. That comes with the risk of him driving back home before he continues on to where he's keeping Anna, but they're on a clock, here. If he slips them, the apartment is all they've got to find out more on where she is. 

Buchanan takes his sweet time with the drawing. He's in there for more than an hour, and when he walks out of the store, cheerfully swinging his bag like he's just heard he's won the lottery and is on the way to collect his winnings, Dean has a hard time not storming out of the car after all and shooting him right here. 

His next stop isn't far away either. An apartment complex, the kind where no one knows their neighbors' names, let alone cares at all what they're up to, and this time Dean and Cas follow him when he gets out of the car and heads straight for the basement. 

 

***

 

They find Anna tied to a chair in a small compartment of the basement, behind rotten steel doors. It looks like it was a bunker of some sort once, and now it's perfect for keeping someone hidden: a small connection to the ventilation system, but not much sound going in or out. Down here, though, Buchanan doesn't seem to give much of a fuck about who might or might not see him; he leaves the door wide open while he putters around in a corner that's not reached by the flickering light of a broken luminescent tube, the only source of light in the room. 

But even so, there's nowhere for Dean and Cas to hide. All Buchanan's got to do to see them is turn around. Dean squints his eyes closed in frustration, runs a hand down is face, and makes a step forward that's halted by Cas's raising his hand in front of Dean's chest. He signals for them to go back. Get reinforcements. Do the smart thing. 

Dean doesn't quite feel like being smart. Not when Buchanan could decide to kill Anna _at any moment_. He shakes his head, and Cas gestures more urgently, then changes plans, signals that he's going back and that Dean should just keep his goddamn head low. 

Well, okay. The last bit might be Dean interpreting things freely. 

While Cas turns to quietly walk back upstairs and to the car to call for help, Dean presses himself as flatly against the wall as he can. He's careful to stay in the shadow, even though that takes away clear sight of Anna. He can barely see what's going on in the compartment. 

Dean manages to stand that for all of a minute, before he inches forward again. Buchanan's right next to her now, and he's got a washcloth in his hand that he uses to wash her face. Anna doesn't react; she appears to be unconscious. Not dead; her chest moves in rhythm with her breathing. She's alive, and Dean's going to make damn sure that it stays that way. 

He hears the door upstairs fall closed, flinches at the sound. But Buchanan doesn't seem to care. He's not deterred in the least, pushes Anna's long red hair back to get to her neck, and if Dean's not mistaken the sick fuck's actually humming something. Low and under his breath, and no song Dean knows. 

Every second seems to stretch out forever. Dean can't see his wrist watch in this light, no way to track how much time passes while he waits for Cas to come back. It feels like minutes, it might be seconds. When he hears the door upstairs open again, relief pulses through him. They'll make it. The building will be surrounded in no time, they'll get Anna out of here alive and Buchanan in hand cuffs. Or dead, possibly, if he resists. Dean can't say he particularly cares. 

And then Buchanan turns, takes a step out of the compartment, and stares directly at Dean. 

Dean's got his gun out and cocked at him before his rational brain can rattle through possible scenarios. Buchanan backs away, closer to Anna, and no. That's not where Dean wants him. “Come out. Step into the light, where I can see you.” 

“Sure thing. Whatever you say,” Buchanan says, arms held up. He's wearing a placating smile, like he's going to fool anyone here into believing that he's the nice, harmless, helpful guy from church, but he doesn't move forward. He's still taking small, almost imperceptible steps backward, and Dean takes aim. 

He doesn't get to pull the trigger. Buchanan turns, jumps forward to the corner he was puttering around in a few minutes ago, and now that he's closer Dean can see a row of metal cupboards. His eyes find the shotgun the same moment Buchanan reaches it, picks it up. Next to them, Anna moans, diverting Dean's attention, and that's the moment of hesitation that Buchanan needs to fire first. 

Dean doesn't hear the shot. Pain travels faster than the signals in his brain, numbs him, paralyzes him. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees more than feels Buchanan push past him, into the hallway, and he yells Cas's name, hopes desperately that it's enough of a warning to take away the element of surprise in Buchanan's favor. While he sinks down to his knees, hand white-knuckling the armrest of the chair Anna's tied to, he hears more shots being fired. Thinks it sounds more like a handgun, like their service weapons, but he can't be sure. 

Shit. He can't be sure. 

More endless seconds tick by while he presses his hands to his gut, where the pain's coming from, and stares out into the hallway, waiting for whoever it is that'll come through it next: Cas, to save him, or Buchanan, who's more than likely going to finish him off. His vision blurs, and he blinks. His lips feel dry and chapped when he licks them. He might die down here, won't see Ben grow up, find out if he's really going to be a lawyer like his uncle. He ought to; he's a smart kid, and surely losing his dad to the force would keep him away from a police career for good. 

“Dean?” 

That's Cas's voice, and it's close. So close. Dean must've lost a few moments, swimming in and out of consciousness. He raises his head, but forming a reply is too much work. He blinks again, feels nausea shoot through him when Cas moves him, lays him so his head rests on Cas's thighs. His hands close over Dean's own and he curses, mumbles reassurances that Dean's brain can't quite process anymore. 

The last thing he registers is the sound of sirens in the distance, telling him that help is going to come, that it's okay, that he can let go now. 

 

***

 

Waking up is slow and like walking against a tide, and Dean knows two things before he even opens his eyes: one, he's in a hospital room and drugged six ways from Sunday, and two, Lisa is there with him. He smells her perfume; something light and floral, no particular brand but always vaguely similar. 

He blinks, stifles a yawn, squints against the light. “Lis?” 

She's in a chair next to his bed, had been reading, but lays the book aside and leans over when she hears him. “Hey you.” Lisa puts a hand on his forehead, brushes her thumb across his cheekbone. “How're you feeling?” 

“Like I've been shot,” Dean says, trying for nonchalant. “Wonder why that is.” 

Lisa makes a face. “Very funny.” 

“I'm trying.” He sits up, bites down on a pained moan. Not drugged enough, apparently. “Ben here too?” 

“Just outside, doing his homework while charming the nurses. I didn't want him to – “ She pauses, eyes skipping down to her hands in her lap, and he knows what she was going to say. Didn't want him to spend too much time staring at his father's body in a hospital bed, unconscious, unmoving. He's been there, knows what that does to a kid. 

Dean nods, and she smiles a small, relieved smile, doesn't finish the sentence. Instead, she points to the side of his bed, where a manila folder lies. “Cas left this here. He wouldn't tell me what exactly happened. Bound to secrecy, he said, which he seems to take a lot more seriously than you. But he wanted you to know.” 

Dean's mind wanders back to the last moments before he blacked out in that basement, Cas holding him, babbling nonsense at to keep him calm. “He was here?” 

“Yeah,” Lisa says. “Dropped off the folder, and stayed almost an hour, sitting here, by your bed, while I took Ben to the cafeteria.” 

There's more than one way to interpret that, worry, guilt, or... something else. To avoid trying to decode that, read too much into Cas's intentions, Dean reaches for the folder. He hisses when he stretches too far and pain pulses through his upper body, falls back onto the bed. Lisa ends up handing it to him. 

The report isn't complete, just a first draft for Dean to read and add to if necessary, but it contains the most important bits of information: Anna Milton is alive, back with her parents after one night in the hospital. Marvin Buchanan is dead, killed by a bullet from Cas's gun – the shot Dean heard in the basement, most likely. 

Two children lost, one saved. Somehow it doesn't make him feel like they've won in this case. 

Dean's saved from dwelling on that by Ben, who pushes the door to the room open at just that moment, book open in his hands and nose right in it. He doesn't look up until he's halfway to the bed, but then his face lights up. “Dad! You're awake.” 

Shoving the folder at Lisa – who gets the message and hides it in the cupboard by his bed – Dean pulls himself up to a sitting position, tries his darnedest to look much less tired and wrought out than he feels. “Hey, kiddo.” 

 

***

 

It doesn't take long for Dean to fall asleep again, his body too drained to be awake for longer stretches of time. Lisa is still there when he comes out of it the next time, although she's changed clothes in the meantime and smells of a different perfume. 

Not a vigil anymore, but a visit. That's okay, it's good, he doesn't want to interrupt her and Ben's life too much anyway. She's putting something away in a drawer next to him, doesn't notice he's awake until she turns back around. “Hey there. How'd you sleep?”

“Like the dead.” When her lips purse, he adds, “too soon?” 

She shakes her head, but judging from the look on her face it's in disapproval, not in reply to him. “You're not half the comedian you think you are. I've been trying to get that through your head for years now, but it doesn't seem to stick.” 

Dean reaches behind himself to pull at his pillow. “I'm hilarious, and you know it.” 

“Sure. Keep telling yourself that.” She bats at his hands until he pulls up his head so she can take the pillow out from behind it, fluff it up, and put it back. “There's someone here to see you.” 

“Oh. Ben's still here?” It doesn't quite make sense for her to make such an announcement of it, if the kid's been here since yesterday, but who else would it be? Sam'd better not blown his hard-earned money on a trip to see his older brother stuck to an IV and wearing hospital gowns. He must have enough memories of Dad like that, just as Dean does. No need to revisit that. 

“No.” She stands, and the grin that tugs at her lips tells him that she's up to something. Maybe not Sam either, then. “It's 10 AM, and I sent him to school.” 

“Okay. Good. He should be.” Dean narrows his eyes at her when she does grin, feels like he's not let in on a joke. Keeping secrets has never been her forte, she gets too exited about the good ones and the bad ones weigh heavily on her. “Lis, what's up?” 

Lisa doesn't reply until she's reached the door, hand on the door handle. “Like I said, there's someone else here to see you.” 

She pokes her head out, exchanges a few words with someone outside of the room, and then slips out. Only seconds later, Cas appears in the doorframe. He stands there awkwardly, clears his throat, and doesn't say anything while he stares anywhere but at Dean and Dean stares directly back at him. 

If this _is_ some sort joke, he hopes it's at least going to be a good one. 

Eventually Cas straightens up, clears his throat, and walks right towards Dean's bed. Dean watches him cross the room in three or four long, decisive strides. He still isn't the least bit prepared when Cas doesn't stop there, but bends down and presses a kiss to Dean's lips. 

It takes him a second to catch on, wrap his head around the fact that _Cas_ is _kissing him_ and that maybe he's supposed to react somehow. He closes his eyes, brings his hand up to Cas's neck and kisses back for all he's worth. Cas tastes of coffee, of a night spent without sleep or rest or toiletries, but Dean doesn't mind. It seems endless, slow, like this is what they're supposed to be doing, what was bound to happen from the start. When they finally part, Dean misses the contact instantly. He blinks, hand still on Cas's neck, their faces inches apart, and licks his lips. A sea of questions swirls around in his head, but all he gets out is, “okay.” 

Cas smiles, and Dean doesn't think he's ever seen an expression quite like that on his partner's face. “Okay? That's all you have to say, okay?” 

“Yes. I mean. No,” Dean babbles. Smooth, Winchester, real smooth. “Why did you... I mean, how did you know?” 

“You haven't been half as subtle as you probably thought you were, Dean. I knew for a while, and I felt the same for longer than that.” The smile gives way for an expression that's somewhere between amusement and the incredulous awe Dean himself feels, and that thought is so out of the left field that Dean has to bite down on a laugh. 

Cas narrows his eyes, head cocked to the side a little. He's still so close that Dean can feel his breath ghost across his own skin. “Is something funny?” 

“You are. We are, I guess,” Dean replies. There's so much more to be talked about, Cas's religious background is bound to come with some baggage, plus, they work together, and they'll both have to come out to the whole precinct if they make this public. It has the potential to go south in so many ways, but right now Dean doesn't care. He pulls at Cas's neck, until Cas gets with the program and leans back in. 

 

***

 

Cas leaves an hour later, wanting to rock the desk work so the lieutenant doesn't put him on leave. Dean understands. He'd prefer to work too, if he was able. Better than sitting around and staring at the wall. 

What Dean doesn't understand is that Cas doesn't show up again, or even call, for the rest of the week. Dean's started to think maybe he dreamt the whole thing, drug-induced hallucination or something.

Lisa drives him home, sans Ben because the kid ought to keep some of the belief in his father's invincibility and watching Dean hobble towards the car while biting his lips and trying not to groan in pain won't help with that. It doesn't matter that Lisa calls him stupid and stubborn and a goddamn mule. Dean's got his pride. 

And now Dean's been home three days, and he's just about ready to bash his head against the nearest flat surface. Ben's been over every day, either with or without Lisa, but that fills maybe an hour or two out of twenty-four. In the meantime, he's watching daytime TV. Cooking show, at the moment. Who knows, maybe he'll learn something. He's about to drift off, fresh load of pain meds sending him to sleep, when he hears a knock on the door. A quick look to his watch tells him it's not Ben; the kid's still supposed to be at school. Besides, Ben rings the bell, like every other normal human being. He doesn't knock.

With considerable effort and a fresh wave of pain, Dean pushes himself up. If that's a sales rep or bible freak, he's going to throw punches. Lieutenant owes him one, right, what with getting shot on duty? She'd take care of it. Ready to yell a bit, get rid of some of his pent-up frustration, Dean pulls the front door open with as much force as he can muster. "Listen you little – Oh."

Cas takes a step back, hands going up a little in surprise. "I'm sorry, did I pick a bad time? Were you expecting someone else?"

"I, uh. No." Dean moves to clear the way inside, nods towards the hallway. "Come in?"

He lets Cas go first – not the first time he's been here, although it's not exactly a regular occurrence – closes the door and follows him. In the living room, he points towards an armchair, lets himself fall back onto the same sofa he worked himself up from a few minutes ago. Cas sends a glance in his direction, like he wasn't expecting to be exiled to the other side of the room, but sits down on the armchair wordlessly.

"So," Dean starts after a few moments of awkward silence. "What do you want?" He almost adds, "from me", but that'd be too demanding. He doesn't need anything from Cas. He's not going to start begging. If Cas changed his mind, fine. Whatever.

Cas clears his throat. "I wanted to see how you were doing. Make sure you're okay. You know, considering –"

"I am," Dean interrupts him. "I'm peachy. Anything else?"

With a sigh, Cas sits up straighter. "Yes. Dean, I'm... I don't want you to think I changed my mind. About us. About the kiss." He pauses, glancing up at Dean, but Dean doesn't do him the favor of a reply to ease his mind just yet. He wants to hear what he's going to say first. "I'm not used to, well. My upbringing made me ignore what I feel, and who I tend to feel it for. Where I come from, being with someone of the same gender is simply not an option. But when you got shot.... Dean. I want to give this a go. I want us to try."

He's positively squirming by now, in that way of his where he's not doing anything but radiating discomfort out of every pore, and Dean's had enough. He leans up a little, enough that he can look Cas in the eye even though he's slightly angled away, and breaks into his most obnoxious grin. "Wait, does that mean I'll be poppin' your cherry?"

Cas's reaction isn't quite as mortified as Dean hoped, but he does blink once, momentarily thrown, before he regains his composure. "Oh," he says, with a perfectly straight face,"I assure you I know what goes where. Perhaps I can even show _you_ a trick or two."

"Now, that I'd like to see", Dean shoots back. The thought to _have sex_ with Cas in the near future seems unbelievable, far away, and really, really awesome. They've got to wait until Dean can move without pulling his stitches, though. Maybe. Unless Dean can come up with a workaround. He's a resourceful guy, after all, and Cas has been rumored to be the brains of the outfit. Together, they should be able to figure this out. 

Dean grins, lets his head fall back onto the arm rest of his couch, enjoying the crap out of the way Cas's eyes follow the motion like they're pinned together by an invisible thread. “For starters, how about you come over here and we see what shape your kissing skills are in? I can hardly recall the ones in the hospital, the meds, you know?” 

Cas is up and marching over to the couch before Dean's even finished the question, levels himself down carefully to the very edge of the upholstery. He squints, eyes Dean with an intensity that has Dean's guts in a knot before he leans down. 

And yeah, okay. Dean's got no complaints to register about what comes next. None whatsoever.

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS: Gruesome murders, violence against children.


End file.
